Evanesce
by LaughableBlackStorm
Summary: When FBI agents trick a terrorist group into freeing American military hostages, a man seeks revenge. Gedda had more contacts than CSI knew, and one of their own is about to have their execution broadcast live across the country.


****

Disclaimer:

I do not own CSI.

**Spoilers:** For Gedda, Goodbye and Good Luck

Rated for violence, language and mild slash.

* * *

_It shouldn't be like this._

_He turns his head and swallows his hiss to the bottom of his stomach. He watches, waits, as footsteps drag closer to him, and a chair is planted in front of him, backwards. Ignoring the man straddling the seat, he instead stares intently at the chair legs. The man's arm dangles over the back and swings in his vision._

"_How are you doing, 'Sanders'?"_

_He doesn't answer. He can't answer. Words have failed him, left him grasping for letters and sounds, only to be met with empty air. If he concentrates hard enough, maybe he will form a word or two on his tongue… But his teeth and lips always steal them away before he can speak. It's their job to make sure he doesn't provoke an attack._

"_I won't hurt you for answering my question, you know."_

_Oh, but it is possible. His lips part and his tongue dances on a sound, but at the last moment his teeth lock together on the tip, smothering any noise that would have otherwise escaped his mouth. The man sighs and stands up again, lifting the chair and placing it somewhere out of his vision. All he can see now are the man's legs, clad in dirty, stained denim, and his feet, which bear what used to be a pair of white sneakers. He does not lift his gaze to the man's face. Doesn't want to look into the black, bottomless eyes._

_His head aches. God, his head aches._

_Footsteps come towards him; he watches them, silently, hoping they'll stop and turn around and leave him alone. A hand grabs his hair and suddenly the man crouches down in front of him, and he squeezes his eyes shut tight because he fears he will crumble at the sight of the person who holds his life so precariously in shaking hands._

"_You aren't being very polite, you know."_

_He tries to speak again, but once more his lips seal themselves shut and his teeth gnaw on his cheek. His eyes don't open._

"_Hey, Sanders…"_

_It shouldn't be like this._

* * *

"You know," Sara said lightly as she flipped through the victim's tox report. "That pizza is probably ready, Nick."

Nick hummed in reply, not taking his gaze off the photos spread out on the layout table. He absently straightened one, frowning in thought.

"Pizza?" Greg asked, raising an eyebrow. "You guys ordered pizza?"

"Yeah. Cheese."

Grinning, Greg said, "Let's go get it then. I'm starving."

"No way," Nick said, finally looking up from the pictures. He smirked at Greg, while Sara lifted an eyebrow. "You can go, if you want. We're still working here."

"Oh, come on," Greg playfully whined. "It'll be fun, all three of us. Walking at night, under the stars…"

Laughing, Sara shook her head. "Go, Greg. We'll be here waiting."

Smiling anyway, Greg strolled out of the layout room and to the front entrance to the Crime Lab.

* * *

It was a cool night. Quiet. Glancing around, he was astonished to see that the street was deserted. He checked his watch and was surprised to see it was one-thirty in the morning—it seemed like just minutes ago when shift had started. Although, time did seem to be flying away lately, after Warrick—

_Don't think about it_, he told himself as the familiar iciness crept inside his chest at the thought of his friend's death, which had prompted Sara into coming back to Vegas. His footsteps echoed emptily on the buildings around him as he treaded the sidewalk, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He tried not to notice the restaurant down the street, the one the team had gone to after Warrick was proven innocent, the one where Warrick had his last meal at. But Greg's eyes still wandered over to the building, the flashing _Open 24 Hours_ sign buzzing loudly and illuminating the sidewalk below it in a red glow. He would never eat there again.

It seemed so ironic and cruel that while he had gone to publish his book on mobs, his friend was killed because of one. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, and stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street. The pizzeria wasn't for another block, but he needed something to take his mind off of Warrick. He stared at all the buildings along this part of the street; none were open. It seemed especially dark without the citizens socializing, and with _Sorry, we're closed_ signs hanging on all the doors.

He saw a flash of something dark in the corner of his eye a millisecond before the wall of metal collided with his legs, knocking the air out of him. With a silent gasp his body rolled and his head smashed into something that cracked—or maybe it was his head cracking—sending flashes of white and black through his eyes and muddling his perception of what was happening. The next thing he knew, he was lying motionless on something cold and unforgiving, and a screeching sound echoed throughout his mind, creating a pounding throughout his head.

He couldn't move. He was paralyzed. Confused and fuzzy thoughts sent warnings to his brain, telling him he must have broken his neck, and he was _paralyzed_ now with a broken neck and there was a liquid building up beneath his cheek that smelled like copper and metal—

He heard panicked voices but the words didn't register in his head. He only received the echoing waves of whatever the people were yelling. _Must be help_, he figured, his eyes unfocused and settling on one of the closed shops in front of him. _Somebody's come to help me_.

But then a slam met his ears and another squeal, and still no one was in his line of vision. No one came to see if he was all right, nobody touched his shoulder and asked if he was conscious.

His fingers twitched. He didn't know where they were—beneath his torso, behind his back, above his head, in front of him—but at least they were still attached to his hands. Dellusional thoughts raced through his mind. If his fingers twitched that meant his hands were still attached which meant his arms were. If his toes wiggled it meant his feet were still a part of him which meant his back couldn't be broken. His fingers also meant his neck wasn't broken. He wanted to cry in relief; maybe he wasn't paralyzed after all. Maybe he was in shock, or his body was faking paralysis to make sure he didn't injure himself any more. Was he injured, anyway? Was his face really lying in blood or was that just tears? Was he crying? He couldn't tell. His face was numb.

He opened his mouth but his jaw wasn't working properly. He couldn't have broken it though, he didn't remember it coming in contact with anything. Maybe his face was paralyzed. Was that even possible?

His fingers twitched again.

He hadn't even gotten the license plate number of the car that had hit him.

It was a car, right? Maybe a train.

Blaring lights blinded him. He heard another slam. A voice met his ears and he couldn't make out what the person was saying at first, but then feet appeared in front of him and he heard a disjointed, _'Kay,_ _man?_

A hand was on his shoulder.

"Hey," he heard. "What happened to you?"

He forced his jaw to open, and for a moment his tongue was too big to make a sound, but when he bit the tip of it by accident the words came out.

"Car," he croaked. He couldn't raise his eyes to look the man in the face; every time he tried white hot pain shot through his skull. "Me."

Everything was silent for a while before the man gripped Greg's forearm tightly. "You work for law enforcement?"

"W-What?"

"You. You work where?"

"CSI." Why did it matter? He needed… He needed something, a building that started with an _h_…

"Seriously?"

What in the hell was that word? _H_… He needed it, he was sure.

"Can I… C-Can you…"

"What?"

"Help… I need…"

"Right. Come on, I'll bring you to a hospital."

_That's_ the word he was looking for. _Hospital_.

"Th-thanks."

The man grunted. "Can you stand? Where are you hurt?"

"What?" The man repeated his question, the grip on Greg's forearm tightening, though he wasn't sure why. "Oh… M'head…legs…"

"Nothing seems broken?"

"N-No…"

"Okay. Come on." The man went behind Greg and hoisted him up by his arms. It was the oddest sensation, standing up even though his legs felt like they couldn't hold up his weight. The man supported most of Greg's weight. "You all right?"

"Yeah." Blood rushed to his head and blinded him for a moment, before receding once more.

"Okay. See that SUV there? That's mine, walk towards it."

What SUV? His head tilted to the right and he saw it. Something was off about it, but he couldn't pinpoint what exactly.

"Nice car," he said absently.

"Thanks. Just got it. You want the passenger seat or the back?"

"I wanna lie down…"

"Back it is. Here." By now Greg could stand mostly on his own, although shakily. His head pounded mercilessly. He heard his pulse roaring in his ears, and the side of his head was indeed sticky; he was bleeding somewhere. With the man's help he climbed in the backseat and lied down, and while the man shut the door and went to the driver's seat Greg strapped himself in with the middle seat belt. He didn't want to get thrown around by a car again.

The engine nearly deafened him, though he was sure it wasn't normally that loud. He groaned and closed his eyes, and the last thing he heard was the man chuckling about something, before everything went silent and dark. He was on his way to a hospital; he was going to get help.

* * *

_He doesn't know where he is. This isn't a hospital._

"_What…?" But he's cut off when the man grabs his collar—he's sitting up now, staring out the window at the rundown house outside—and yanks him out of the car, his head reeling, and he stumbles, his legs giving way. The man grunts and lifts him up again, spins him around so they're facing each other, and slams him into the side of the SUV. Greg opens his mouth in shock, his mind unable to comprehend what is happening._

"_Hold still," the man growls. Greg for the first time notices he has a Spanish accent._

"_I don't—" He is interrupted by a fist connecting his stomach, making him double over and gasp for breath. His head pounds even more._

"_Shut up," the man hisses. He grabs Greg's collar and throws him back so they're face to face once again. They're the same height. "Don't say a fucking word, and walk towards the house, you got it?"_

_Greg neither responds nor nods, though it's more because of his shattering headache than his disobedience. He shakily pushes off of the SUV, and with the man's hands on his shoulders, makes his way slowly towards the abandoned building. He can't walk in a straight line._

* * *

"Greg?"

He didn't turn or look at who had said his name. Instead he remained still, his hands shaking and clenched in fists, his gaze locked on Aarón's face. The person in the viewing room with him stepped forward and in the corner of his eye he saw a hand raise hesitantly towards his shoulder, then drop again.

"Greg…" It was Nick.

"Yeah?" His voice sounded weak even to his own ears, and he snapped his jaw shut in frustration. He was pathetic. He slid his eyes over to the left a bit so he could see Nick's face more clearly. The other man's attention kept switching between the interview happening and Greg himself.

"You, uh… You holdin' up all right?"

Greg nodded. Nick's accent was showing up thickly, which meant he was distraught over something.

Nick raised a finger and scratched the glass window lightly with his nail, gazing intently at his movements as he spoke. "If you wanna talk to someone about it…I'm here, you know that, right?"

Greg finally looked at him, a blank expression on his face.

Nick's eyes flickered towards him, and upon seeing that Greg was staring at him, he cleared his throat and turned his attention back to his finger. "I mean… What happened, it must've been…" He sighed and dropped his hand. "I can't even imagine it."

"I'm sure you can," Greg said quietly. "You were on camera too."

Nick was silent for a moment before sighing and running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, but still… It was different."

Greg nodded and stared down at Nick's feet.

Finally seeming to muster up the urge to do so, Nick turned so he was facing Greg directly, and in turn Greg looked up so they made eye contact.

"Listen, Greg…" He took a deep breath. Greg didn't dare blink. "I was… It was horrible, watching you…" He swallowed roughly. "We've become pretty good friends lately, you know, and I kept thinking about what would happen if…"

"Nick…"

"No. No, you have to hear this. I have to say this."

"Okay," Greg whispered.

* * *

"_What's your first name, eh? Where's your wallet?"_

"_I don't know," Greg whispers. He's sitting against a wall in what used to be a kitchen, but is now a dilapidated room with broken chairs and table, a sink covered with mould and rust, a fridge that's filled with rotten, unidentifiable food, and empty cupboards. There isn't even a stove or microwave or toaster. He shifts his sore eyes to the table, which is in two halves and covered with an inch-thick layer of dust. The light bulb illuminating the kitchen sends ice chips through his eyes so he closes his lids, not wanting to fight the urge to black out anymore._

"_Hey. Hey!"_

_He gasps and snaps awake. He doesn't know how long he was unconscious._

"_Stay awake, damn it."_

_Why? Why does he have to torture himself by fighting off the darkness?_

"_I'm tired…"_

"_Stay. Awake."_

_Footsteps come closer to him but his eyes are closed._

"_But—"_

_The tip of a shoe embeds itself in his gut and he gasps, hunches over, wraps his arms around himself._

"_I said, stay awake."_

_But the pain is too much and his leg isn't moving like it should and his head is pounding and the room is spinning_—

* * *

"…waking up. Sir? Sir, can you open your eyes for me please?"

The female voice was soft and persuasive, but he clamped his eyelids down tight, willing himself not to open them. He didn't want to see the video camera, the darkness beyond it, the lamp beaming right into his face…

"His blood pressure's rising. Here—"

He didn't want to hear the man's voice anymore, hear the malice and hatred and madness weaving between his words, creating a symphony of promise and pain and death…

"Sir, calm down, you're in the hospital—"

Hospital?

No.

_No_.

He couldn't be in the hospital. The hospital wasn't a helpful place, it was a rundown house in the middle of nowhere, where no cars went by to see him, rescue him. The hospital was where _he_ was, where the knife was, where the video camera was.

He didn't want to be at the hospital. Nobody here would help him, they would only hurt him. Kill him.

"Sir! You need to calm down!"

Calm d—

* * *

_There was no windshield. He realizes it now, what was wrong with the SUV. There was no windshield, like somebody had kicked it out or something._

_He's lying on the floor, his wrists bound behind him and his ankles tied together. It hurts horribly, having his injured leg twisted straight—and that's an odd combination of words, too—because he knows that right now, it's supposed to be crooked. Something is wrong with it, and it isn't meant to be in the same position as his healthy leg._

_He hasn't been awake for a while. Just long enough to hear the man mention going to get a couple of supplies. What he needs, Greg isn't sure, but he prays that it's an ambulance or help of some sort._

_He should find a phone. Call someone._

_But his hands are behind his back, and without them to brace himself, he doubts he'll be able to stand up._

_Painfully and slowly, he brings his knees up to his chest—a crack echoes through the room when his bad leg bends and he knows he's broken something, but the pain is dulled to a barely-there throb from his migraine—and brings his arms around his legs, so that they are now in front of him. Sweating and shaking and gasping for breath from pushing his body into tight movements, he rests for a moment to gather his bearings. He has to close his eyes because the room is swimming in his vision. The light is still on, though he wishes it isn't. It blinds him._

_Biting his lip, he pushes himself up against the wall once again and leans down to untie his ankles. At least he remembers they're bound—the last thing he needs is to fall over because he can't move his feet. It's simply rope tied in several knots, although his wrists are chafing and his skin is peeling where the rope rubs against it. He barely registers the pain._

_The panic is setting in now._

_Breathing more rapidly and shallowly, he rolls over onto his shaking arms and knee—his broken leg remains twisted, out to the side. He uses the wall for support as he stands, his head pounding from the sudden jolt of blood to his brain, but he remains upright, albeit leaning fully on the cracked wall. He opens his eyes halfway. The wallpaper is disgusting and ugly, a yellow-green colour and peeling._

_He glances around for a phone. He can't see one. Maybe his cell phone is still in his pocket. He checks. It is. But it's smashed to pieces._

_Sobbing at the injustice of it all, he throws it across the room as hard as he can. One piece lands in the sink, one breaks into even smaller parts when it collides with the fridge, and the other piece doesn't even make it that far and hits the floor halfway across the room._

_He knows he can always go search through the other rooms, but his leg is useless and his head is spinning violently. Suddenly bile rises in his throat and he falls over again and retches, shaking and sobbing, wishing he could just leave this place and go back to the lab, where all his friends are… Sara, Catherine, Grissom, Archie, Wendy, Mandy, Hodges, that Riley girl who is supposed to replace Warrick and has nowhere near enough talent to do so, Nick…_

"_Oh God, Nick…" he says in a guttural moan of despair._

_He can't leave Nick behind. Not until he tells him how he feels._

_He hears a car door slam, and seconds later the front door opens. He turns his head up, and with wet eyes, he gazes at the video camera, tripod, and wires in the man's hands._

* * *

_The man has disappeared again, into the room adjacent to the kitchen. He talks on his cell phone in some other language, most likely Spanish. Greg wishes Nick were here to tell him what the man is saying._

_His eyes drift closed and he dreams of a memory_.

"Hey, uh, Nick?" Greg leaned against the locker room doorframe, chewing his bottom lip. Nick had his foot up on the bench as he tied his shoe.

"Yeah, G?"

He glanced down at the floor. "You feel like going out for breakfast?"

Nick straightened up and shrugged, grinning. "Sure, why not. Who else is coming?"

"Um… No one."

Nick frowned at him slightly. "So it's just the two of us?"

"Yeah," Greg replied quietly.

Nick slowly closed his locker. "All right, sounds good. You paying or am I?"

"It's on me." And he smiled, relief and giddiness gushing down his throat and pooling in his stomach.

_A sound reawakens him, though he isn't sure what it was. Blearily he opens his eyes and watches as the man reaches for the equipment on the counter, which he had placed there when he came in. Apparently this house isn't the piece of shit Greg thought it is, because the other man is setting up wires and plugging them in, and there's a laptop as well that he hadn't seen. Several clicks later and the man sets the video camera on top of the tripod and peers through it._

_It's pointed at Greg._

"Perfecto,_" the man says, and Greg mildly recognizes it as 'perfect' in Spanish. He looks down at Greg and smiles wickedly, something that causes ice to build up over Greg's skin._

"_You are going to be the perfect person," he says, crouching down in front of Greg, who has pushed himself into a sitting position once again. "You will be the first one to…sacrifice yourself. You're a…"_

"_A martyr," Greg whispers, remnants of horror washing over him, though his disjointed thoughts and aching head tone down the emotions flooding through him. "You're going to kill me."_

_The man just smiles. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a roll of duct tape and a large butcher knife. Greg almost throws up again. A ripping sound echoes throughout the room as the man takes the amount of duct tape he needs and cuts it using the knife, and a second later Greg's mouth is covered. He can't even fight back; his head is swimming and there are two men in front of him, not one._

_Suddenly the man is gone, but a moment later he returns with a lamp that he plugs into the wall. There is electricity here; maybe somebody really does own the place._

_The light drills straight into his eyes and he squints and bows his head, willing the pain encasing his body to go away. The man is suddenly bending down towards his ear and whispering, "Smile for all the people watching. You're on national television, Sanders."_

_His eyes widen, and sure enough, the red light is blinking on the camera, and the laptop is facing him, showing his pale face, along with his captor's_.

The diner was nearly empty, with only three other people eating, besides them. Greg could barely sit still, his nerves were jittering so rapidly. He swallowed and glanced at Nick, who was staring out onto the street while taking a sip of his coffee. Greg's mouth opened and closed several times, before he sighed resignedly and sipped at his own mug. Maybe after a few more minutes.

"You okay?"

Greg's head snapped up and his lips parted in surprise. Nick was staring at him, his brow furrowed, concern shining in his eyes.

"What d'you mean?" he answered quickly.

"You looked deep in thought."

"Oh, yeah, I was just…thinking."

Nick chuckled. "Really?"

Greg forced a wavering smile on his face. They were silent for several more minutes—Greg didn't know why they weren't talking, they always had so much to say—while eating their meals. Greg's nerves shot up again when he looked up at Nick.

"Um, Nick?" he asked in a quiet voice that was perhaps a notch too high pitched.

Nick turned his attention from his eggs to Greg. "Mhm?"

"I…" His mouth was open, his tongue was ready to move, his throat wasn't closing up…and yet his brain wouldn't function.

"Greg?" Nick's eyebrow was raised.

He stared into Nick's eyes, and then snapped his gaze back out the window.

He lost his nerve, and remained silent.

_The man is speaking in Spanish, reading from a paper that Greg can see out of the corner of his eye. He must have dazed out for a while. He stares at the laptop; his face stares back at him. His eyes are dazed and unfocused, the left side of his head soaked with blood, his skin deathly pale. It's then he notices the man has a knife at his throat, his arm wrapped around Greg's chest, keeping him still._

_He begins to shake uncontrollably._

_He's going to die._

_He doesn't know what the man is saying. Nick would know; Nick speaks Spanish. He closes his eyes and pictures Nick's face, his chocolate brown eyes, his hypnotic voice. His trembling calms slightly as he remembers all those moments they were together, talking, hanging out. Nick's smile, Nick's laugh, Nick's hand on his shoulder. All those times he could have confessed, could have said, Nick, I love you. All the times he didn't._

_He opens his eyes—they're full of tears—and his shaking begins again._

_No, he tries to say, but the duct tape steals his words away. I don't want to die. Please don't kill me. I'm not your martyr._

_The knife presses more tightly against his skin, until a bead of blood slips down his neck and under his shirt._

_And the panic sets in._

_He starts to thrash around, scream muffled sounds, and the man drops his paper and stumbles backward, taken by surprise. The grip on his neck disappears and he throws himself over to the side, also making his upper body disappear from the screen. He tries to push himself to his feet but forgets about his broken leg and wails in agony as the pain finally catches up with him and tears him down from his kneeling position, splaying him on the floor. And suddenly the man is on top of him again and dragging him back towards the camera, hissing something in his ear that he doesn't catch even though it's in English, before the knife is embedded in his stomach, near his hip. His eyes widen and he cries out in shock more than pain—the pain hasn't registered yet._

_The man resumes their previous position, with his arm around Greg's neck, minus the butcher knife this time. The pain is beginning to seep in, slip through the cracks of his shocked state and pool in his mind. He shuts his eyes tight and breathes by pushing out his chest as much as he can, instead of his stomach, wanting to cause the least amount of burning agony as possible._

_He catches a word that the man says. He remembers it from when Nick mentioned it, years ago._

'Dios._'_

'_God.'_

_His eyes snap open and he stares at the blurred ceiling._

_Even if there is a God… He wouldn't want this._

_Because Greg doesn't want this._

_He closes his eyes again before bringing his head forward, and then throwing it back as hard as possible._

* * *

The door opened and Greg absolutely refused to open his eyes, because if he did that then it meant he would see the filth and dust and broken chairs and table and the scattered remains of his cell phone. He would see the video camera and the tripod and the lamp and his reflection staring back at him. He would feel the man's body behind his, the knife against his throat and inside his stomach.

"Greg?"

His name is whispered, and he finally opens his eyes a slit because the man never called him Greg, he didn't know his first name.

"Nick…"

He began to cry.

* * *

_His head connects with the man's nose and he hears a crunch and unimaginable pain fills his skull, threatens to wipe his vision blank, but he hangs on and finds his hands and with a millisecond-long moment of terror he reaches down and grabs the handle and yanks the knife out of his stomach and doesn't even think about the pain or the horrifying amount of blood as he wheels around and stares directly into the man's wide and fury filled eyes and the man's arm rises but Greg ignores it and thrusts the butcher knife into the man's chest and the man's knee connects with Greg's stomach and he grunts when it causes more blood to spill out of his own wound and he pulls the knife out again and stabs the man through the eye and the arm drops and the man stills and Greg cries out in horror and despair and shock and fury and confusion and blinding terror and he turns around and sees his face staring back at him on the laptop and he sees the blood spatter all over his skin and clothes so he kicks the tripod so that the screen now shows nothing but the cracked wall and the hideous wallpaper_—

"Hey, Nick?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you… I mean… When you were…underground…"

"Yeah?"

"When you wanted to, uh, kill yourself…"

"Greg. Get on with it."

"Right. Sorry. Just… What made you stop?"

—_and_ _he stares at the knife because his reflection is no longer staring at him and he can't comprehend what has happened, what he's done, and he suddenly can't do this anymore because he was about to die tonight and he's in the middle of fucking _nowhere_ and his head is throbbing so painfully he can't even remember his own name and all he knows is the agony of his broken leg concussion bleeding stab wound and nobody has come to rescue him yet and he's staring right at the knife and it would be so easy just to pick it up and place it at his throat so he picks it up and places it at his throat and takes a deep breath and closes his eyes_—

"Nick, that does require an answer, you know…"

"This isn't funny, Greg."

"I know. I'm…sorry. Don't answer that, I'm being stupid."

"No, I…I want to answer it."

"You don't have to, I swear, just forget I even asked, all ri—"

"Greg. Shut up. I'm answering."

"Oh. Okay."

"I… I thought about…you."

"M-Me?"

"Well, more like…everyone, you know. My parents, my siblings, my friends…and yeah, you. Greg? You all right?"

"What? Yeah, I'm fine."

"Oh. You just looked…flushed for a moment there."

_Nick's face is burned into his memory and he can suddenly see his eyes, his smile, feel Nick's hand on his shoulder. He gasps for breath. Every sound he makes echoes throughout his mind._

_He drops the knife and backs away_.

* * *

"Greg?" Nick's concerned voice sounded closer than before. Greg looked up and saw that the other man had moved forward until he was right beside Greg's head. "Are you in pain? What's wrong? D'you need a doctor?"

He shook his head and reached out with his hand, and Nick immediately placed his own on top of it and squeezed. He pulled up one of the uncomfortable white chairs and sat down, without letting go. Greg loved the feeling of their hands intertwined. He loved the fact that Nick had come alone. He loved Nick.

"Greg? Tell me what's wrong, G."

"Thank you," he whispered. He wanted to stop blubbering uncontrollably, but he couldn't help it.

Nick frowned. "For what?"

Greg sniffed and buried his face in his pillow, closing his eyes. Goddamn painkillers were making him sleepy again.

"For coming."

"I… Of course I came, man, you're my be— You're my friend…"

Still too close to Warrick's death to call Greg his best friend.

"Yeah, but this is your first time coming, and I've been here for a few days…" he mumbled, his words beginning to slur.

Nick didn't say anything for several seconds. Greg heard him swallow.

"I, uh… I'm sorry."

"S'all good. Here now."

"Yeah," Nick whispered, his words tainted with remorse. "Yeah, I'm here now, buddy."

"Don't lemme fall asleep, Nicky."

"What?"

"Don't… I don't want to… Keep me awake, please?"

"Greg, you need to rest."

"No, I want to… You're here now, I don't want to sleep…"

"Greg…" He almost sounded choked up, but Greg was too drugged to be sure.

"Stay, 'kay? Stay awake, keep me awake."

"Greg," Nick whispered, his hand tightening around Greg's. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay here, but you need to sleep."

A tear slipped out from the corner of his eye and fell onto his pillow. His eyes were too heavy to open.

"No, I…I wanna stay here with you…"

"Greg, I'm not going anywhere." No, he definitely sounded choked up now. "Just sleep, okay? I'll be here when you wake up, I promise."

It sounded really tempting. He could already feel himself drifting away from the hospital room. "But I… I have to tell you something, Nicky… 'S important…"

"Tell me later." Nick's fingers brushed away his bangs, and in his moment of sleepy delirium he didn't find it odd at all. It felt too comforting, too perfect and right. "I'll be here. I'll listen."

His breathing evened out and deepened before he could respond.

* * *

"You mean you don't remember us coming at all?" Brass asked, his brow furrowing. He glanced at Nick with a weird expression on his face, though Greg didn't try to understand it. The rest of the team—minus Nick, who Greg had asked to stay when Brass arrived to take his statement—was outside the room waiting. Greg glanced at them; Grissom was standing still with a blank expression on his face, Catherine was sitting down and jiggling her knee, and Sara was pacing the hallway.

"No," Greg answered quietly, returning his attention to the interrogation.

"What about before that?"

Greg blanched. "I don't… Can we not…"

"Jim," Nick said in a low voice, almost warningly.

"Fine, it's fine," Brass said with a small smile. "We won't talk about that yet. We've got the camera, anyway."

Greg closed his eyes and swallowed at the thought of the video camera. Opening them again, he asked in a hesitant voice, "Who… Who was he?"

Brass shared a glance with Nick before answering. "His name was Esteban Ortego. He was a member of the Columbian terrorist group FARC, and he fled to Las Vegas from Columbia when the group was tricked by some FBI agents into freeing American military hostages. His brother was killed when things got a bit nasty. I'm not sure why he came to Las Vegas, but at the moment we have cops looking for a man named Aarón Hernandez, who might be able to tell us more."

Aaron James' face flashed in Greg's vision, and his stomach churned. "Who's that?"

"Someone Ortego called while…you were with him."

Greg remembered that phone call.

"He said 'perfect'," he said absently.

"What?"

Shaking his head, Greg explained, "During the phone call, I picked out the word 'perfect'."

"Oh. All right."

"What, um… What else can you tell me?"

Brass looked down at his notes. "The SUV he took you in—"

"He said he was bringing me to the hospital," Greg whispered, a haunted look in his eyes. He felt Brass and Nick's eyes on him, but he stared at the wall to his left, remembering. "I thought he was… I'm so stupid," he scoffed, wiping a tear off his cheek.

"You're not stupid, Greg," Nick said firmly. "He deceived you."

"And I killed him." He whipped his head around to look Nick in the eye, tears silently coursing down his face. "I killed him, Nick."

"Greg, he was gonna kill you."

"I could've waited for you guys! If I just injured him instead—"

"We were thirty minutes behind," Brass interrupted. "You would've been dead, Sanders. I'm sorry to say it, but I doubt that guy would have just laid there."

Greg rested against the pillows. "What were you saying about the SUV?"

"Right. It was also the SUV that hit you."

"You're kidding me, right?"

"Nope. The people in it, who were drunk out of their minds and claim they didn't see you, even though that street has fully functioning lights and they hadn't turned or anything—" Greg smiled at the angry look on Brass' face. It was nice to know that he cared. "—said that they panicked and drove away, and when they parked on the sidewalk this guy threatened to kill them if they didn't give him the car. He kicked out the windshield when he saw the crack, I'm guessing. We found the glass where he stole it, some pieces with your blood on them."

"Well that's just great," Greg muttered. "Really ironic."

He heard Nick chuckle beside him.

* * *

"Nick…"

"No. No, you have to hear this. I have to say this."

"Okay," Greg whispered.

Nick sighed and rubbed his eyes with his hands, then turned his gaze back into the interviewing room. "We were all watching it," he said in a low voice that held nothing but honesty. "All of us. Even the people that aren't on night shift. Brass called from the station and told Grissom to turn on the news, saying that some video had come in and they couldn't get rid of it, some sort of bug. When he saw it was you, being held captive… Well, we all went crazy. And…I understood what that guy was saying, whereas none of them did. They kept asking me to translate, but I…I couldn't." Tears welled in his eyes and he stared down at the floor. "It was so pointless, Greg, what he was saying. You would've died because his brother was killed by the FBI. He kept going on and on about God and sacrifices and you being a goddamn _martyr_—"

"Don't say that word," Greg automatically said.

Nick looked at him, but only nodded. "I just… How could I translate that, G? It would be like reading someone's suicide note to their friends. You just…don't want to hear that.

"When Brass found your wallet lying on the street, probably knocked around from when you were hit, then we _knew_ that something was wrong… I mean, we had already begun to really worry when you never came back with the pizza—"

"I hate pizza," Greg muttered, and Nick didn't seem to know whether to laugh or cry at that. Greg didn't, either.

"And when Sara and I went to the pizzeria the woman said you never came in… Well, things just went downhill from there. Grissom had Archie track where the feed was coming from, and then we found out it was a live one, and well, that just made us even more frantic to find you. I lost it, you know." They made eye contact and Greg was frozen in Nick's sincere gaze. "When he stabbed you. I went absolutely _ballistic_." He chuckled darkly and shook his head, breaking their magnetic eye contact. "Catherine had to take me out of the room for a bit. And when I came back, it was to find you fighting back, stabbing him…"

Greg involuntarily whimpered and bit his lip. Nick instantly moved forward and guided Greg backwards to the chair in the room, and it was only when he was sitting down and Nick was kneeling in front of him that Greg realized he was crying. Embarrassed, he made to turn away, but Nick's hands on his face stopped him front doing so.

"Nick?" he whispered.

Nick swallowed roughly, seeming to be having an internal battle about something. Greg's heart pounded so erratically in his chest and he was trembling so hard that he was surprised Nick wasn't shaking with him.

"I… Do you remember, in the hospital, when you told me you had something important to say?"

Greg's eyes widened. No sound came out of his mouth—his nerves stole his words away, his jaw was locked shut, his tongue stuck between his teeth—so he nodded.

"Well…I have something important to say, too." Nick swallowed again. "I…have…feelings for you, Greg." And then he cringed. "That sounded so…gay."

Greg couldn't help it. He burst out laughing, guffawing so hard that Nick let go of his face, and he leaned forward and clutched his stomach, until tears were rolling down his face in mirth. Finally, after what seemed like forever, he straightened up and wiped his cheeks.

"Ah, man," he said with the occasional giggle. "That was awesome."

He opened his eyes, expecting to find Nick still kneeling before him, but was instead met with the Texan's back retreating to the other side of the room, where he leaned against the wall and crossed his arms.

"Shit," Greg muttered, all his laughter disappearing in a crashing _whoosh_. "Nick…" He stood up and slowly made his way to his friend.

"I don't know what you found so funny," Nick growled. "But fuck you, Greg."

"Nick, come on, let me explain…"

"Stay the fuck away from me." He opened the door, but Greg flew towards it and pushed it closed again by smashing his body against the side. Nick's hand shot back in surprise. Even Greg had to admit that it hurt a bit. "Are you supposed to move that fast with your leg? Where're your crutches?"

"Listen. If you're mad at me, at least _stay _mad, okay?" Greg said, eying his crutches, which were leaning against the glass window that faced inside the interviewing room. "Don't go switching on me. Stay constant." He wasn't even aware of the hidden fear reflecting in his eyes, though apparently Nick caught it, because regret immediately pooled in his eyes and his mouth went slack. "Look, Nick, just…" His mouth twitched. "You said you sounded gay, and, well… You have to admit that it was a _little_ funny…"

Nick snorted and finally gave in, crossing his arms again. "Fine."

"Did you…mean it?" He couldn't keep the hope out of his voice. He was trembling again; he wondered if Nick noticed.

Nick nodded, swallowing again. His gaze flickered between Greg's eyes and his lips, and that was the last straw. He couldn't contain himself anymore. He stepped forward, ignoring the cast on his leg, and gently took Nick's face in his hands and leaned forward, and they collided in a cataclysmic kiss. He felt Nick respond beneath his lips, the sharp intake of breath through his nose, and his hands gripped Greg's hips, sliding onto his back, his palms pulling Greg closer to him, his fingers spreading out.

And then, suddenly, his lips were gone, and Greg felt himself kissing air. His eyes snapped open to see Nick staring at him with a smug little smirk. "So is this what you wanted to tell me?"

"Pretty much," he whispered hastily, before seeking out Nick's mouth again. Nick's hands crawled up Greg's back and then suddenly the younger man was pinned against the door. Greg's hands entangled themselves in Nick's hair, and he lost himself in the Texan, their tongues intertwined, their heavy breathing synchronized, their hands exploring, and then—

He was shoved forward from behind into Nick, their foreheads colliding and Greg's concussion nearly flared up again. Nick stumbled back, both panting for breath and in shock, and Greg wheeled around to find Brass standing half inside the room, the door opened. He raised an eyebrow.

"Why was Sanders against the door?"

"I…"

"He…"

"Right," Brass said, switching to business mode. Greg's cheeks flushed when he realized that both his and Nick's appearances were scruffy and out of place now. "You catch that interview, Sanders?"

Greg's mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound came out.

Brass raised an eyebrow again. "Didn't think so. Want to hear it?"

"S-Sure."

"Apparently Ortego had connections with Gedda, which is why he came to Las Vegas."

"Gedda?" Nick said through a clenched jaw. "You mean Greg almost died because of that slimy bastard?"

Brass stared at him solemnly. "Ortego didn't know Gedda was dead. He was on his way to see him when he saw Greg lying on the road, and he thought he would make sure he was all right."

Greg couldn't find the right words to express his fury and confusion, but Nick could.

"Are you fucking _kidding?_" he exclaimed. Greg shrank back slightly. "He wanted to make sure Greg was _okay_, and then he took him to _kill him?_"

"He only decided to do that when he saw Greg's vest. He wanted revenge on law enforcement." Brass then nodded and retreated from the room, shutting the door behind him.

"You do realize," Greg finally managed to choke out, "that I am the _last_ person you would want to pick to get revenge on the law enforcement?"

Nick stared at him, his own anger simmering.

"I'm a fucking _CSI level one_," he said brokenly, leaning against the door again and sliding down to the floor. Moments later, Nick was beside him, their shoulders and knees touching. "What the fuck does my death to do this country?"

"Don't talk like that, Greg," Nick whispered fiercely, staring determinedly at the wall across from them. "It would've crushed all of us…me…if you'd died. We would've… We would've seen it happen…" He took a deep breath. "I lost it, when we burst into that abandoned house."

"You were there?"

"Uh, yeah… And I kind of…admitted everything, while I was there. So Brass already kind of knows how I feel. As does…uh…Grissom, Sara, Catherine, Riley, Ecklie, some police officers…"

Greg chuckled, closing his eyes. "Brass now knows the feelings are mutual. And I don't even care. Let him go tell everybody."

Nick laughed lightly.

"I almost killed myself," Greg whispered. He leaned over until his head was resting on Nick's shoulder, his good leg propped up to his chest. "After I kicked the camera down. I picked up the knife and…and I almost did it."

"What made you stop?" Nick asked in a whisper.

Greg grinned into Nick's shirt, loving the warmth transferring from Nick's body into his.

"I thought of you. Only you."


End file.
